


The Demands of Power

by sepulchralseneschal



Series: The Snakeoil Warden [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: Slavery mention
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-30
Updated: 2016-12-30
Packaged: 2018-09-13 08:27:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9114973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sepulchralseneschal/pseuds/sepulchralseneschal
Summary: The Darkspawn have just been swept from Vigil's Keep, and loose ends must be tied up. But Nails is still reeling with the consequences of the Blight, and doesn't know if she's up to the task.





	

Nathaniel was familiar with the dungeons. When they were children, they would huddle around the courtyard and dare each other to open the door and peek inside. In his memory it would happen just as the Sun slipped beyond the lip of the bulwark and its shadow stretched across their frames, crenelations finding the crooks and hollows of their faces. Something about those summer evenings, with the light stretching on into the night and the smell of thunder always on the wind, awakened something sinister in them.

He was a pragmatic lad even then, and would chide his siblings for superstition and cowardice. He was always the one to descend the narrow staircase into the gloom. As long as he was sure that the cell below was empty.

It had always seemed such a small room. Cramped, even. Certainly it didn't deserve a title so imposing as “The Dungeons.” It was just a square of packed dirt, with plaster walls and a grate closing off one corner. 

Of course, Nathaniel felt differently now.

From the other side of the prison bars, the room seemed to stretch on for miles. This was partly because the standard instruments of a dungeon – the kettles, the racks, the tables with their shackles – had been removed. But he knew it was also the effect of his imprisonment, an emptiness juxtaposed to his stifled freedom and the oppressive, silent stare of his keeper, who sat on a stool in the corner, his legs permanently propped on an empty keg.

On the occasions when when the door to the outside opened and cast its light along the walls.... Nathaniel had traveled more than most. He had crossed the narrow sea, had visited Orlais, and all eleven of the Free Cities, but never had he felt the world so vast as when he felt its wind gusting through the door and down that corridor. 

When the door opened that day, however, there was no light on the walls; it was blocked by the silhouettes of the people who had entered. His ears told him there were three: two in heavy maille whose weight made the stairs creak as they descended, and another who, unlike her companions, was light of foot. Indeed, he would not have been able to distinguish her presence at all if she hadn't been mumbling to herself. The scrape of shuffled parchment told him that she was reading, and making a slow go of it by the pace of her words.

This was it, then. His judgment had finally arrived. His insides squirmed like an animal in a snare, but he calmed himself with a few breaths and a clenched jaw. He wagered his chances with the Wardens were, if not good, then at least better than with most nobles of the land. After all, many Wardens were once thieves, or so the stories went. And even if they had been inclined towards punishment at first, they likely had more pressing matters to attend to after the darkspawn attack. There were too many unknowns to make a guess at what would be done with him, but he had hope. It was nestled awkwardly alongside fear and rage, but it was there all the same, whispering in the back of his head to exercise caution above all.

He had heeded that voice well. It was what had kept him silent for three whole days of humiliation. It was what had kept him sane. But now, even as his hope reached new heights, as it urged him to stand and face the cell door, it was brittle. And it shattered in the instant that she descended the last step and came into view around the corner, her gaze lifting reluctantly from the missive in her hand.

 _It was her._ The Warden-Commander. It could be no one else. Nathaniel had seen many a jumped-up Lord in his life, and she certainly had the look. It was in the angle of the chin and the stony set of the eyes. The expression pretended to austerity but belied belligerence, as if she expected an attack on her station at any minute. The war had been kind to her, had given her many titles, more than most elves could ever hope to achieve, and yet she looked dissatisfied. _Ungrateful,_ he thought.

Anger grew to fill the void left when his hope crumbled away. He felt his mouth contort into a sneer, despite himself. Just the sight of her ignited in him that very flame that had driven him back to his old home, to ignore his better judgment and attempt the unspeakable. Andraste have mercy, but he hated that face. And he would have that hate reciprocated if it was the last thing he did, caution be damned.

“If it isn't the Great Hero. Commander of the Grey. Vanquisher of the Blight.” He tilted his head and cast his eyes down the elf's frame as if only now noticing the her stature. “Aren't you supposed to be ten feet tall? With lightning bolts shooting out of your eyes?”

As his gaze returned from her feet to her face, her onyx eyes locked on his silver, and Nathaniel felt a jolt run through his body. He had been sure such a slight would raise her ire, but instead she looked at him and smirked.

“I see my reputation precedes me,” she said. Her face was tattooed like a Dalish, but her accent hailed from some Ferelden slum.

“It does,” he agreed, spitting his words through gritted teeth. “But I know you best as my father's murderer. Do you remember Rendon Howe? These lands were once his. Before _you._ ”

Her expression curdled just as he'd hoped, a curled lip revealing a chipped incisor. “Arl Howe? _How_ could I forget? And you're 'is son? ...Well, now at least we know why you're so ugly.” Despite it all, her tone was still flippant. 

“Is that your best insult?” He smiled wryly and turned to pace as best he could in his cell. “Up until now I had wondered: when the Wardens slaughtered my family, was it personal, or was it simply the business of war?” The Commander followed his movements carefully, her narrowed elven eyes glinting in the shadows. He stopped so that he could appreciate that squint of hers in its entirety. “Seeing that look on your face, well, that's all the answer I need.”

She crossed her arms and shifted her weight onto her back foot, her head cocked at an odd angle. “Which had you 'oped for?”

He was taken off guard by such a question. Truly, he had not expected anyone to ask him much of anything; only to prescribe him his fate. “I...don't know.”

"Does it please you? knowin' he was 'ated?"

That drew a laugh from him. "People have hated my father long before you'd even heard of him, I'm sure."

The Commander nodded. “Your father was very good at repulsin' people. It seems you may share his talent. In addition to 'is nose.”

“Do you think I care what you think!?" He shouted. The outburst was sudden, and surprised him more than her. He gritted his teeth and cursed himself for proving, in his ire, exactly the opposite of what he claimed. But how _dare_ she imply that they were alike? "For twelve generations, the Howes have served the realm! And now – my home, my family, my friends, my reputation – It's all lost! So you can stop picking at my brain and do what you came here for.” 

“Very well.” Her face split in a grin, though her eyes were flat and dead. Without looking away, she flung a hand behind her and rapped on the chestplate of one of her guards. “I've come to a decision about the thief. You listen closely, and repeat what I say to the Seneschal.” She then took one, two, three steps forward, until her face was almost pressed against the bars of Nathaniel's cage.

He could reach through and wring her neck if he wanted. He knew her guard and the gaoler would kill him in an instant if he did, but still, he considered it. 

“Don't worry. I'm not goin' to chop your 'ead off or put you on the rack. I'm not a monster. You'll survive this in one piece. Well...physically speakin'.” Her eyes shined when she saw his breath hitch in his throat. “Startin' tomorrow, your rations will be reduced by a third. Next week, a third again, the week after that...well, you get the picture. It will continue on like this for weeks, months, I don't know 'ow long. At some point your 'ealth will fail you. Then I'll sell you to the Imperium.”

Dread landed like a stone in Nathaniel's stomach.

“Commander -” the gaoler began, breaking his silence for the first time in days.

“Quiet!” The elf snapped, turning to glare at the man. She then eyed the guard she had turned into a messenger, and waved her hand impatiently. The man gulped and backed away, turning and breaking into a trot when he reached the stairs. But by the time her eyes returned to his, Nathaniel had done his best to compose himself.

“And here I thought the Grey Wardens were supposed to stand for honor.”

The Commander scoffed. “The only thing we stand for is endin' Blights. You best forget anythin' else you 'know' about us.”

Nathaniel had so much rage inside him. He had been holding it in, saving it for the moment when he could send an arrow through this woman's chest, but now that time had come and gone, and, spirit shaken, his anger began to spill out of him. He grabbed the bars and shook with all his might, but the rattling sounded so small in the face of her smile.

“What kind of person would do something like this?” He asked, when his energy was finally spent.

The Commander blinked, and for a moment she looked bemused, her lips pursed and her brows knit together. But then she began to laugh. At him. And she continued to laugh as, without so much as another glance, she turned and traipsed back up the stairs. It was dark and smoky, like a campfire crackling in the dead of night, and it rang loud in Nathaniel's ears long after she had gone. He heard it when he caught the gaoler giving him a sideways glance as he left at the end of his shift. He heard it when they tossed him supper that evening; two spoonfuls of barley and a hunk of brown bread. And he heard it that night as he crawled into the far corner of his cell, where a slight scattering of hay suggested a bed. He knew that sound would follow him all the way to Tevinter.

~~~~~~~~~~

Niale's laughter died in the cold of the evening. It was nearly as dark outside as it had been in the dungeon. Clouds hung low in the sky, stifling the sun and the sounds of the forest. Or perhaps the land was still in shock after the tainted scourge that had rolled over these hills. Niale stood in the center of the courtyard and stared at the foot of the strange woman's statue, holding the bridge of her nose. Her face ached. It always ached in weather like this, ever since that ogre had smashed her into that wall. That ogre...she shouldn't have thought of it. she screwed her eyes shut, but still the memories flooded back.

_Fire lit. She was broken all over. No fight left when they surged up the staircase. The smell of rot on a darkspawn's breath, the spittle stinging skin like oil from a pan. The black blood in the goblet, salt and tang on her tongue and sticky in her throat. The green haze of the air deep below the deep roads. The archdemon's piercing white eyes. Alistair's eyes were brown. brown and red and wet, and refusing to look at hers._

The images washed over her in waves, in no particular order. Just one horror to the next. She swore and kicked the dirt. 

Her nose still whistled when she lay on her back in bed at night. Did Morrigan let it heal wrong as some cruel form of amusement? It would not be unlike her. _That's unfair,_ she told herself. Morrigan was more beneath that sour exterior. Everyone was something more than they seemed. She had to recognize that, had to be better at seeing beneath the skin if she ever wanted to...ever wanted to...she didn't know how to finish that. Didn't know what she wanted anymore.

But she had to learn from her mistakes.

The great door to Vigil's Keep swung open with much clatter and clanking of chains, and steel boots tromped down the stone steps. She sighed and straightened, hooking her fingers around the low collar of her leathers. Her nose throbbed upon its release. 

Seneschal Varel bore down on her like a juggernaut, a fire in his rheumy eyes. His fighting days may have been largely over, but he still had the bulk he had built from a life's worth of wielding a broadsword. He must have been a formidable man in his youth. He had been polite up to this point, but curtly so. Niale suspected he was only hiding behind such chivalry until he could size her up properly, and indeed, now that he thought he had discovered her nature, all pretense of deference had dropped.

His words began as a growl in his belly. Niale held up her hands to stop him before he could form snarls into syllables. 

“Seneschal, did you know that you 'old Nathaniel Howe in your prison?”

This gave the old knight pause. He stopped abruptly before her like a war horse rearing. “Maker's Balls, another Howe? ...They are insidious aren't they?”

“An apt assessment, Varel. Care to tell me 'ow you missed that vital piece o' information?”

The lines at Varel's mouth pinched into a frown. Niale was making no friends, fast.

“Don't know how you expect us to have known. He hasn't said a word since we found him.”

“And no one said 'Hmm, that bloke, 'e looks an awful lot like that painting up there,' did they?”

Varel was overcoming his surprise now. He leaned forward and crossed his arms. “Only portraits were the Arl and his wife. And we burned the Arl. Look – _Commander_ – so he's no simple thief. You want to charge him with treason and give him a family reunion, you'll get no argument from me, but Tevinters? _Slavery?_ Not in these halls. Not while I breathe.”

Niale sighed. The seneschal was an upstanding sort, but a little...straightforwawrd. It would take some work to acclimate him to the way of things. _Her_ way of things. It was work she had not expected to do. She looked around at the courtyard, the stone walls, the grass trampled into the dirt, the distant shadows of horses shifting nervously in their stables. She never thought during the Blight that she had been lucky, but at least then her tactics were understood.

“We're not going to sell him to slavers, Seneschal. What do you think I am?”

“Oh?” Varel was unsure at first, but she glared at him until he relented. “Oh. A-Apologie, Commander. I was told that-”

“Yes, I _told_ him that's what we'll do. You have heard the phrase 'let him stew?' Well, you got t'provide heat for the stew.”

Silence from the Seneschal. There was concern in his knit brows. 

“He wants to die with dignity. We're taking that away from 'im. I was hoping for a taste o' poetic justice as well, but it seemed to go over 'is head.”

“I'm not sure I follow. Poetic Justice, Commander?”

Niale blinked. Her mouth pulled taut. This conversation was taking far longer than she had hoped it would. Her limbs felt like warm rubber. There was a slight tremor in her legs. She wanted a bed. “you've read the reports on Denerim, Varel?”

“...I do not see the connection to the siege of the Arl's estate.” his words were slow. He was genuinely bewildered

 _Humans._ Wasn't it just like them. Broadcast far and wide when the alienage is quarantined, but nevermind when you discover the reason for it. She should have been angry. But she couldn't muster it. So she just shook her head.

"It's not even been a full day, Seneschal. Do a kindness and extend me your trust a little longer, aye?” She asked. _Because it's your fucking job,_ she almost added. 

For a moment it seemed as if he was going to protest, but after a tense pause, he bowed. “Ma'am.”

 _Ma'am indeed._ But she nodded in return. And stood there, eyebrows raised, until he retreated indoors. She would have been pleased with herself and the ease with which she took to commanding others, but she was too tired. _And that's nothing to be proud of,_ she reminded herself.

She supposed she should follow him. The Keep: it was her command now. She could take the Arl's bed. _Or she could take his son's._ The thought should have filled her with vindictive glee, but it only made her sick.

Instead she found herself stalking across the courtyard to the stables and climbing over the door of the stall that housed a dun mare. She was old – too old for anything but farm carts – but she was calm, and she smelled like wet grass. Niale fell asleep on the bale of hay in the corner, curled up with a ginger barn cat, staring at the rafters and imagining herself in Redcliffe.


End file.
